“How much of that is bluff?”
“None of it. I’m giving Mr. Oliver my word.”
Cramer glared at me. I grinned at him sympathetically. He cocked his head at Wolfe, and suddenly acquired an excess of blood above the neck and made an exhibition of himself. He jerked up, slammed the desk with his fist, and yelled at Wolfe. “Sit down! You goddamn rhinoceros! Sit down!”
The phone rang.
I swiveled and got it, spoke to it, and heard Fred Durkin’s voice, low, husky and urgent:
“Archie? Come up here as quick as you can! I’m in that place again, and I’ve got a corpse or he soon will be!”
“I’m sorry,” I said politely, “but I haven’t had a chance to speak to Mr. Wolfe about it. I’m sure he can’t come now — he’s engaged here with a visitor from the police — hold the wire, please.” I addressed Wolfe, with the receiver close enough so Fred would get it too: “This is that fellow Dawson. He phoned this afternoon. He’s got a crate of Cattleya Mossiae from Venezuela, and he wants a hundred bucks for a dozen. He’s had an offer—”
“I can’t go now.”
“I know you can’t—”
“But you can. Tell him you’ll be there right away.”